


Fragments of a Broken Dream

by dracofire87



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Anguish, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofire87/pseuds/dracofire87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the disastrous ending of Survivor Series, Roman Reigns gets some comfort from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments of a Broken Dream

He made it out of the ring, somehow. Made it through the locker room, past Dean’s incandescent, incoherent rage. Someone else could have the job of holding Dean back from bashing Sheamus’ head in with a pipe tonight. Maybe nobody would, and Dean would actually do it. For once, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He even made it through the call with Galina and Joelle in the car, though he wasn’t sure how. Galina did most of the talking. He managed a few short replies through a throat that felt filled with hot lead. It was a relief when she finally cut the call.

He could let the numbness come back. He didn’t have to think about how heavy and real the championship had felt in his hands. He didn’t have to remember how it felt to have it taken away.

He could do empty instead.

A blink and he was pulling into the hotel parking lot. Autopilot, he supposed. Didn’t have to think to make that drive. Keycard, check. Elevator, check. Room, check--

\--with someone waiting for him outside the door. Too slender to be Dean. And Dean, last time he checked, hadn’t been leaning on crutches.

Seth.

Emptiness filled with boiling rage; furious heat that threatened to overwhelm the numbing cold. Two betrayals, two stolen opportunities blurred together in his mind-- _how dare he come here after everything he’s done_ \--

Roman’s ears filled with a low rumble, and he realized with a jolt that the noise was coming from his own throat. He was growling like a beast, his hands around Seth’s neck, not quite squeezing. His former brother was slammed up against the door, crutches scattered around his feet, and Seth’s eyes were filled with fear and shame and pity…

He made his fingers unclench, bit by bit. Pushed Seth aside. Tried to unlock the door.

His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t put the damn card in the slot.

Slowly, carefully, someone took the keycard from his fingers, opened the door, and led him inside. Gentle hands guided him into the room, sat him down on the edge of the bed. He was glad, dimly, that someone was managing him, because he didn’t think he could manage himself anymore.

“Hey. Hey, Roman. Look at me.” Someone tapped his cheek, lightly. He blinked. Seth’s face swam into focus in front of him. “There you go. Time to come back to reality, big guy. Stay with me.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to go off into the numbness so he didn’t have to hurt anymore. Wanted to go into a rage, to break Seth like Seth broke everything in his life. But rage didn’t stop anything, and Seth wasn’t going away.

Why _wasn’t_ Seth going away?

“Why are you here?” He’d meant it to come out accusingly, harshly. What came out of his mouth sounded rather more pathetic, pleading rather than hateful.

Seth didn’t answer for a long moment, staying silent as he limped slowly back to the doorway to retrieve his fallen crutches. He moved slowly, gingerly, jaw tightening each time his wounded leg took weight.

_This costs him._ The thought floated up, unbidden, through the haze of half-numbed pain. Seth was like Dean that way: he never wanted anyone to see him struggle.

His return trip was quicker, relief evident on Seth’s face the instant his weight was off the knee. Seth hitched himself over and settled himself on the edge of the bed, crutches propped against his good leg. Close enough that his weight felt his weight shifting the mattress, far enough away to be out of easy reach.

The silence stretched out between them, but for once, Seth’s body told him more than his words did. _Shame_ , said his face. _Regret_ , said his silence. Finally, he shrugged.

“They took it from me, too,” he said, his voice rough and low.

Roman wanted to protest, to yell at him that it wasn’t the same, that Seth took the title from _him_ : that he got what he deserved for his betrayal. He looked up, opened his mouth--and the quiet sympathy in Seth’s eyes sent him to pieces, all his composure undone.

Pain twisted in his chest and belly, dragging a soft, horrible keening noise from his throat. He closed his eyes against tears hot with anger and despair and shame, sobs wracking him so hard he could barely breathe.

Hands tugged at him, and Roman leaned into the touch, blindly, clinging to flesh and cloth for an anchor against the sorrow that threatened to swamp him. Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, kept him close, stroked his back and his hair as if he were a child. Helpless, Roman wept for lost chances and broken dreams, while his closest friend and deepest enemy whispered quiet reassurance in his ear.

Finally the misery retreated, leaving him spent, soggy, empty. He took a deep, shuddering breath, felt Seth stand, withdraw--then limping footsteps returned, and Seth shoved a box of kleenex into his hands.

“Jesus, man, blow your nose. You’re getting snot everywhere, good god.”

Roman laughed, choked and weak, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Why--” he said, but Seth cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“They didn’t even ask before they stripped it off of me, y’know? Didn’t even ask.” Rollins hooked the broad end of a crutch around the leg of one of the crappy hotel chairs and dragged it over to face the bed, dropping into it with a grunt. He took a deep breath, hunching over, and his voice dropped into a mocking imitation of Triple H’s growl.

“‘Sorry, have to do what’s best for business, I’m sure you’ll understand,’ and ushered me off to surgery. Wouldn’t return my calls, my texts, my emails. I nearly sent a fax just to see what they’d do. The only people who visited me in the hospital were the fucking New Day. Can you imagine? It was almost worse than _nobody_ visiting me.”

Roman started to roll his eyes, to say something appropriately derisive, starting with ‘get the fuck out,’ but Seth held up a hand, jaw tight, eyes going pleading.

“Let me finish, okay? Because if I don’t now I fucking never will and I swear there’s a point besides ‘oh poor Seth.’ Please?”

He closed his mouth, leaned back, flipped his hand in a “go on” gesture. Seth nodded, took a deep breath, good leg bouncing with nervous energy.

“Where was I? Oh, right. The fucking Trombone Section. They were it. The Authority didn’t even send flowers. And then I get shipped off to rehab. Alone. With a lot of fucking time to think.” A muscle in Seth’s jaw jumps and tightens. “About how I’d been used. About exactly how disposable I was. About exactly how _stupid_ I was.”

Something dark and ugly flashed across Seth’s face, anger and loathing turned inwards. He laughed, cold and mocking, but for once, it wasn’t aimed at Roman. It was almost worse, knowing that laugh was aimed at Seth himself.

“Bet you never thought you’d hear me say that, did you? Bet it sounds really good, doesn’t it?” Seth said. “I was stupid. I was a fucking _idiot_. I thought I could beat The Game at his own game and I _lost_. I wasn't even on the board. And I deserved every fucking thing I got.”

His eyes flicked up to Roman’s before skittering away again.  “I came here tonight to pay homage to the new champ. To tell you congratulations, let Dean punch me, and give Triple H the finger. Wanted to tell you that you deserved it, and that I’m glad it was you. Could have been Owens, and wouldn’t that have been a disaster?” Seth flashes him a tight, crooked smile.

“And then that red-headed bastard had to ruin my plans. Goddamn idiot.” Seth sighed, his voice going quiet, so that Roman could barely hear him over the sound of the hotel AC. “Knew you’d be a wreck. Knew Ambrose would be too wrapped up in his own conniption fit to notice.”

He smiled tiredly at Roman, and shrugged. “Someone’s got to take care of your stoic Samoan ass. Was all I could do.” Seth picked up his crutches, gesturing idly with one of the pair. “I mean, technically I could offer to beat Sheamus bloody with my crutches, but I figure Ambrose already has the ultraviolence angle covered.”

Roman got a mental image of Seth chasing Sheamus around the locker room on his crutches--and laughed in spite of himself. After a moment, Seth started to grin, and then to laugh, until they were both giggling like boys at the ridiculosity of the whole situation.

It felt good, to laugh with Seth again. It almost made Roman forget everything else that Seth had done.

Almost.

Seth’s laughter trailed off alongside Roman’s into a companionable sort of silence. Roman could feel the gulf opening back up between them, between the betrayer and the betrayed--but it didn’t seem as wide anymore. Maybe small enough to start throwing ropes across, if he felt like it.

After a long moment, Seth looked him over and nodded, satisfied. “Get some sleep. I have to be back with the torture technicians--excuse me, _physical therapists_ \--tomorrow. Never meant to stay long.” He limped over to the door, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “And...you’ll get it back. I’m sure of it. When you do, just make sure to punch the stupid braids out of that idiot’s beard for me, alright?”

Then Seth was gone, door clicking shut behind him.

Roman sighed and flopped back onto the bed. God, he was tired.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He waited. Maybe they’d go away.

It buzzed again.

He sighed and dug it out. Two messages from Dean.

_Fuck u ok?_ followed by _Rly u ok bro? Txt me or ill break down ur door._

Roman sighed. He was going to murder whoever had showed Dean how to turn off autocorrect. He suspected Xavier Woods.

_I’m fine. Tired and sore. Going to sleep. Tell me you didn’t kill Sheamus._

_nah hes partying with authority. fucking wanker._

He snorted softly. _Stop trying to learn slang from Neville._

_no. sure u dont wanna beer?_

_Nope. Ice packs. Sleeping. Have one for me._

_already done. ill have a couple more for u. we’ll kill him tomorrow. together. bffs 4ever._

_You are such a basic white girl._

_fuck u._

Roman laughed and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.

In his dreams, he was champion. In his dreams, he took the belt home for Joelle to play with, just another shiny toy on her bedroom floor.

In his dreams, for the first time in months, he had two brothers again.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, this gets a little stomped on by the turnaround at TLC, and some of the exchanges that Rollins and Reigns have had on twitter in the wake of that. But hey, it was fun to write. Many thanks, as usual, to Ru Gunn, my wonderfully thorough beta reader. (I attribute most of the readability of my wrestling fics to her.) I'm also now tempted to write a fic about the New Day visiting Seth in the hospital...


End file.
